Que Sera Sara?

In a couple of weeks I will live in the New House. (Can we say “Yay!”?)

Of course, in Edinburgh, new is a relative term. The New Town was designed in the 18th Century. The University’s New College is the quintessential example of the Victorian gothic-revival.

And my New House is far away from both. Back beyond Old Town, in the foothills behind the city, where the neighbourhoods still have high streets of their own. It will be marvellous.

I tell people this and they look at me squinty-eyed. You’re moving in HOLIDAY season?! their skeptical eyebrows scream. As if nothing could be more important that cookie swaps. That or they think heavy lifting in the cold equates to a mortal sin.

But I find a strange comfort in moving house this time of year. It’s perfect for nostalgia, familiarity, traditions and fresh starts. Moving forward into a new year in a new place. Unpacking old lives, sifting through long forgotten relics.

Assessing my life through its objects is a hobby in and of itself, and the perfect obsession to support my packing, sorting and storing practices.

As I sift through cupboards and unearth unexpected delights and cringe-worthy impulse buys, I imagine what this collection would say to about a stranger – what conclusions would be reached by (purely hypothetical, I am not entirely delusional) future anthropologists and archaeologists tasked with sifting through this life of stuff?

This compulsion to actually see and touch every object on its way out is slow going. It’ll take weeks to move our little two bed. But it provides me with time to digest and decide. I can afford to be conscious of exactly what is coming with me and why – and what objects and memories are ready to be released back into the wild.

You see, this process (which drives Bean mad) steels me for The Purge.

A purge I insist on making for cathartic purposes and personal economy, combined with self preservation: the New House is a fourth floor walk up. I’d better love those books A LOT for them to be worth the practically inevitable cardiac arrest.

Which brings me to today. The spare room is now awash with unneeded goods. Stuff that just doesn’t fit my carefully curated New House, no matter how much I love it.

Amazing wonderful things are in there, mixed in with admittedly some utter tat. Some items much-loved, others never used. All in need of good, loving homes and fresh new starts of their own. (Convinientl,y this includes far more than the 26 items of clothing I’d promised myself to shed as part of my Thirty Things. Try more like 100. Maybe 200. Who knew I owned so many ball gowns?)

So if you want to nab second-hand bargains (a vintage Burberry anyone?), find one-of-a-kind Christmas gifts (who doesn’t want a scrolled mantle clock? or a sheep’s skull?) or browse my relics out of sheer voyeurism (yes, ahem, that is my insanely luxurious feather boa…), let me know.

I am currently navigating the world of online merchant-hood. It is enlightening and terrifying and filled with the sorts of small thrills that can chain a woman to a penny slot machine.

Come on baby, mamma wants a New House!